The Last Garden in England(34)

“You don’t need a job. You have a company,” she muttered, stuffing her phone into the canvas bag on the front seat of Charlie’s American-style pickup truck and cutting the ignition. Martha Reeves and the Vandellas stopped singing about a heat wave midverse, plunging the truck into silence.

She would do what she always did. Head down. Move forward. Don’t look back.

Emma thrust open the truck door and braced herself for the cold, pounding April rain that stung her face as she ran the short distance to Highbury House’s front door. The thirty clematis that she needed for the long border and the tea gardens would be fine in the bed of the truck, but if water made it through the flap of her bag, she was screwed.

Like magic, the door swung open, and she hurtled past a very dry Sydney and Bonnie and Clyde, practically skidding to a stop on the black, white, and gray tile of the entryway. Gone were the drop cloths that had littered the space when she’d first arrived, and the scent of newly applied paint still hung in the air. Highbury was making progress, and so was she.

“I saw you drive up,” said Sydney.

“Thanks,” she said, holding her bag out as she tried to wring out her hair one-handed. The dogs danced around her, thrilled as always.

“Bonnie, Clyde, down. Where’s Charlie?” asked Sydney, peering out at the truck.

“He’s patching up his narrow boat. The roof sprung a leak,” she said.

“He lives on a narrow boat?” asked Sydney, frowning.

“He stays on it when he’s on jobs near the Grand Union Canal, otherwise he’ll take a cottage like I did.”

“Does he like it?” Sydney asked.

“When the weather’s nice.”

“It’s England…”

“And the weather’s never nice for long. I know. He bought it at the height of the summer, and all he could talk about was motoring up the canals in the sun.” Fun-loving, easygoing Charlie was brilliant at troubleshooting and logistics but wasn’t exactly a forward planner.

“Let me get you a towel,” said Sydney.

Emma didn’t protest as her employer led her downstairs to the basement. It was often easier to agree with Sydney than try to persuade the woman that she didn’t need or want any help. Surprising herself, though, she’d quickly become accustomed to going along with the other woman’s whims. The fact that Sydney seemed to delight in making people’s lives just a little bit easier, brighter, or more welcoming didn’t hurt, either.

“Have you been down here before?” Sydney called over her shoulder.

“No, not yet.”

“This used to be the servants’ domain.” They reached the bottom of the stairs, and Sydney pointed to the left. “The kitchen is that way. We still have the wine cellar, but sometime in the last fifty years someone installed a washing machine and a drying rack in the old stillroom.”

Emma followed Sydney into a spacious utility room with a washer and dryer, a Welsh dresser, and a set of cabinets built into the wall. Sydney opened one of the cabinets and pulled out a neatly folded ivory towel.

“Thanks,” said Emma.

“I was just going to put tea on, if you want to join me.”

Given the rain, she wasn’t eager to get out into the garden. “Sure.”

“Wonderful!” Sydney lit up so brightly that Emma felt guilty she hadn’t accepted the woman’s offers of tea more often.

Emma squeezed water out of her long ponytail as she walked up the corridor to the kitchen. When she crossed the threshold, however, she stopped short.

“Wow.”

This had to be the most beautiful kitchen she’d ever seen. A huge central island of stone-gray-painted wood and granite with a set-in gas cooktop sat in the middle. On the far wall a huge hunter-green Aga dominated, a conventional oven set in next to it. There were generous counters, a deep Belfast sink that looked like it could fit either Bonnie or Clyde, and cabinets done in a slightly lighter shade than the island. Emma knew they were virtually underground with only a tiny set of windows near the ceiling allowing natural light in, but somehow the space felt airy. And to top it all off, a bouquet of forget-me-nots spilled out of a blue-and-white jug with casual elegance.

“This is incredible,” she said.

Sydney blushed. “Thank you. Cooking is a passion of mine, and I wanted to make sure we had a usable kitchen when we moved in.”

“It looks more than usable. I want to cook in here, and I don’t even like cooking.”

Sydney laughed. “Andrew said the same thing when he saw the architect’s plans. Let me get the tea on. Why don’t you take a seat?”

Emma rounded the island to where Sydney had pointed and found a set of black bar stools tucked under the ledge. She pulled one out, watching Sydney fill the kettle and flip it on before pulling out a teapot, teabags, and two mugs before heading to the refrigerator for milk.

Sydney put a slice of lemon drizzle cake in front of her just as the water came off the boil. “If you want it. It’s just something I’ve been experimenting with.”

“Your own recipe?” she asked.

“A lemon drizzle cake with pistachio and poppy seeds,” Sydney said as she poured the water into the pot. “I don’t think I have it quite right yet, but I’m not embarrassed to feed it to you.”